


Euthanasia

by stillnotking



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Depression, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-28
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2018-03-04 00:47:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2903192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillnotking/pseuds/stillnotking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story nobody wants to hear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Euthanasia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [macabreverbosity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/macabreverbosity/gifts).



> Euthanasia  
> /ˌjuːθəˈneɪzɪə/
> 
> noun
> 
> the painless killing of a patient suffering from an incurable and painful disease or in an irreversible coma

She's talking again, she does that a lot those days, I think she might be trying to make up for my silence.

I ignore her, as usual.

You'd think she'd have given up by now. She needs to stop trying to coax me into pretending I'm anything but a hollowed out shell, a cardboard cut-out, a gutted pumpkin with a lopsided grin.

Her voice is merely background noise to the real show that's going on in my head. The voices get so loud that they leave my ears ringing. Images of things I buried, things I  _thought_ I had buried have dug themselves out and are back to haunt me in all their rotten-flesh glory.

No wonder I can never hear her, I can't even hear myself.

It's not her fault, or his, or theirs, or anyone's. It's mostly my own. I dug my own grave and willingly lowered myself in, yet I keep wondering why I'm choking on dirt.

She touches my shoulder and I flinch, she apologizes quickly and withdraws her hand. I didn't mean to flinch, I never do, I just can't bear the thought of being touched. I fear that she might catch the lethal virus of emptiness and then I'll have one more victim to add to my ever-growing list.

I catch the disappointment in her eyes. I should feel something; shame, remorse, instead, I feel numb. The nothingness has taken over me and left no room for other emotions.

Self-loathing makes appearances, taunting me, it really shouldn't do that, I thought we were friends.

All my old friends have been visiting me lately. Misery has become a house guest, it leaves all my pillows wet. Anger has left my office looking like a battle field. Lonliness has made itself comfortable between my ribs.

I think Longing might be the worst of them all. It crawls under my skin and makes it prickle with the idea of touching  _him._ It sneaks behind my eyelids and forces me to see his face over and over again.

I wonder how my internal organs are dealing with the new visitors that are competeing with them for space. Although, the visitors aren't wholly new, my organs just learned to ignore their presence. But now, they have risen from their slumber, and they have risen with a vengence.

This must be what it's like to go insane. I feel mad. Hell, I  _am_ mad. I'm mad with want. I'm mad with grief. I'm mad with the desire to rip myself apart.

Insanity for me feels like swimming in a dark sea, struggling against the current as unseen monsters keep a good hold on your ankles, dragging you down if you try to fight. It's like walking in a tunnel, with no hope of finding any light at the end of it.

But there is a way out. An impromptu exit that gives instant relief. The unexpected life boat comes in a glass bottle and it promises to help me escape.

I shouldn't take the easy way out, I should fight, I should punch the walls of my cage until my knuckles bleed. That doesn't mean I will.

I tried, don't you dare think I didn't, but I was overpowered. I'm alone on this front, while my demons form an army. My only ally, he gave up on me too. I poisoned him. He tried to build me back up, brick by brick. I did nothing but tear him down again and again and again...he just couldn't build himself back up so I was left, unfinished and on the brink of falling apart again.

I put the bullets through my own shield and watched him bleed out. I watched the light bleed out of his eyes. I watched his mouth curl into one of his radiant smiles as another person stitched all the wounds left by me.

I kept doing that, hurting him. She kept stitching him. It was a never ending cycle until one day, I realized he wasn't around anymore. That's when I started tearing holes in my own flesh.

My bottled savior should be kind enough to perform euthanasia on me, because this broken body is beyond saving.

Glancing at the clock, I take a deep breath and force my dead eyes to type the two words that seem to be the backbone of my colorful façade. The painted morale that hides the burnt interior.

"Good morning!"


End file.
